


Snow-Angels

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley only tolerates snow for his angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	Snow-Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



The thing about snow, you see, is - well. It’s cold. Damn cold. Brass monkeys and brass gorillas cold. And whilst it’s great for causing travel delays (trains, planes, cars, even foot-traffic), it’s... you know. _Cold_.

Crowley may not be an actual snake, but he’s as much that as he is human, in all fairness. And it is hard to look cool (no pun int-- oh, who is he kidding) when you’re wrapped up warm. Even the super-rich at the apres-ski have to look like they’re the offspring of a biped and a sleeping bag. 

But the kicker - as there is **always** a kicker - is that the angel loves it. Course he bloody does. He miracles up fake snow in his shop windows, bought into the Dickensian miracle-winters, even though he was there for the fog and the stink. His romantic rosy glasses make him giddy. Hot cocoa and mittens and scarves and his biggest complaint is that he doesn’t see children sledging down banks. (No, Crowley thinks. They do it when it isn’t snowing, and they do it on wheels, because Humans have progressed, unlike the angel.)

It’s hard to ignore the boundless enthusiasm, over the mulled wine and apple-red cheeks. To be properly grumpy when - in a moment of impish and innocent delight combined - a small bundle of balled-up snow hits his arm. He retaliates, of course, by putting significantly more down the back of the angel’s collar, to scolding and giggles. 

Leather gloves and the sound of crunching underfoot. The patterns of footsteps, human, avian, feline, canine... the day’s history laid out before them. The need to make a perfect print, with every line showing crisp and clean. 

Fine. It’s okay. 

He sees the angel paused, hands wringing as he quarrels with himself. The bobbing left and right as he assigns pros and cons to the blank canvas he’s found. Crowley watches, and listens, catching enough of the mumbled words to identify the quandary.

It’s going to sting. And he’s going to be damp. And he’s going to complain. (And the angel will make him warm drinks and rub his hands and turn up the heating and smile that smile that’s only for Crowley.)

Blast it all.

He walks up to him, turns so he’s facing him, and holds his eyes as he trust-falls (or, let’s face it, plain old falls) backwards into the drift. Arms and legs akimbo, making the pattern he knows Aziraphale wanted.

“You know,” Crowley grumbles, “...we actually have real wings.”

“It wouldn’t be a snow angel, then. Er. Snow... demon.”

“Ridiculous,” he grumbles, but his face hurts for all different reasons when he has a companion in the snow. 

“They haven’t forgotten us,” the angel whispers. “Not really.”

“No.”

“They don’t know quite what we did... but they haven’t forgotten we exist.”

No. Crowley thinks that’s nice. It’s probably better the humans have idealised (and demonised) ideas about them. The truth is much, much more complicated than any snow-painting could convey.

“Can I get up now?” he asks.

A kiss to his nose and a hand offered out says yes, he can. Crowley is also a bastard, so he pulls the angel down and makes the patterns into a mess of fluff and flailing arms. But he gets another (begrudging) kiss, so it’s worth it. 

At least Aziraphale has always hated ice-skating. Crowley might have drawn the line at that.


End file.
